Two colored troopers in France called upon the Chaplain.
“Look here, Mr. Chaplain, we wants you for to settle an argument,” said one of them. “Dis here man says lots of saints were colored folks. Would you please tell me how many of dem ’postles were niggers?”
“None of them was a darky,” said the Chaplain.
“Well, Sir, that settles it. Dis man wanted me to believe that St. Peter was a nigger, and I just told him: ‘No, Sah, St. Peter was no nigger, ’cause I heard you say about St. Peter and dat rooster crowin’ twice. If St. Peter was a nigger I jest know dat rooster would never have a chance to crow a second time; no, Sah.’”
EIGHTEEN YEARS OF HOPE
A wife whose husband is on active service recently presented him with a bouncing baby boy. She wrote to ask him when he should get leave, and also when the war would be over. His reply was as follows:
“Dear Lucy:—I don’t know when I shall get leave or when the war will be over, but if the baby should be called up before I get leave, give him a parcel to bring out to me. Your loving husband, Bill.”
A NICKNAME THAT STUCK
The Post School for Soldiers gathered for the afternoon session. The teacher was the Chaplain. The lesson, he said, was about the adverb. “What is an adverb?” There was an eloquent silence. At last a weary voice ventured: “That’s a word that ends in ly. I learned that back in Missouri.”